Read 1632 for Free Online Page B

hadn’t boxed professionally in years, but the old training and experience had taken over. Steady, steady; don’t lose your cool; it’s just another fight. A stray, whimsical part of his mind told him how foolish he looked, marching toward mayhem in wingtips and a tuxedo, but he ignored it.
    The first man who spotted him was the one squatting on his heels about three feet from the woman. The man had been simply watching the scene, leering. When Mike’s movement caught his eye, the man turned his head. His eyes widened. He was not more than thirty feet away, turned sideways.
    Mike stopped. He crouched slightly, in a firing-range stance, bringing up the revolver. Some part of his mind noted the instant reflexes of the man he was going to kill, and was impressed. No tyro, he. The man was already rising, shouting a warning.
     Both hands, firm grip, cock the hammer. Steady, steady. Center of mass. Squeeze the—
    As always, the magnum went off with a roar and bucked in Mike’s hand. He watched just long enough to see that the slug had slammed into the man’s turning shoulder and knocked him flat. A split second, no more. The man might still be alive, but he was clearly out of the action.
    Mike could hear the flat crack of Frank’s Winchester, and Harry shouting. He ignored the sounds, blocking them out as easily as he had blocked out the roar of the crowd while he was in the ring. He was swiveling, now, ready to take out the man holding the woman’s arms. That one was facing him squarely. Mike could see the man’s mouth gaping wide open, but his face was a blur. The man was still on his knees, but he had released the woman’s arms and was rearing back on his heels.
     Just another fight. Cock the hammer—single-shot’s more accurate. Center of mass . . . 
    Again, the .357 roared. The shot took the man square in the chest, slamming him back as if he’d been run over by a truck. Mike knew he was dead before he hit the ground.
     One left, and he’s tangled up in his dropped trousers.
    The rapist was shouting something. Again, Mike couldn’t understand the words. Nothing registered except fear. The man was scrambling off the woman. He tried to rise, tripped on his trousers, sprawled on his face.
    But he was clear of the woman now. Mike raised the revolver, ready to kill him, but stopped when he saw Dr. Nichols was already there. There was something surgically precise about the way Nichols, from close range, leaned over and shot the man in the back of the head. Once, twice.
     So much for that. Mike turned away, looking to the farmhouse. He could remember, now, hearing several shots from Frank’s rifle.
    All three men at the door were lying on the ground. One of them was not moving. He was on his knees, sprawled against the wall of the farmhouse. His buttocks were covered with blood. Mike was certain that he was the first one Frank had shot. For all that he teased Frank about that silly damned lever-action, Frank was both an excellent marksman and one of the most reliable men Mike had ever met. Got his deer every season, usually on the first day. Frank would have shot for the lower spine, just below the cuirass.
     Paralyzed, for sure. Probably dead or dying.
    The other two were writhing on the ground, screaming, clutching their legs. They didn’t scream or writhe for long. Harry was already there, racing forward. The young miner stopped abruptly, a few feet away. He pumped a shell into the chamber, aimed the shotgun and fired. For all that Harry was obviously in a rage, he hadn’t lost his composure. He aimed for the neck, unprotected by either helmet or armor. The man was almost decapitated. The buckshot sent his helmet bouncing off the farmhouse wall, the straps broken and flailing about.
    Harry swiveled. Pump, level, fire. The other man was silent. Unmoving, dead. Blood and brains everywhere. Another helmet